finger

An unruly rabble bursts on to the street: a noisy eruption, bubbling towards us. This isn’t closing time on the Croisette in Cannes. A flock of sheep bustles past our cottage towards the shade of a huge chestnut tree, driven by three generations of herders and their dogs. The waterlike cacophony of their bells slows until only the odd tink tink punctuates the cicadas’ hum. The sheep graze, the shepherds doze off, and the mountain hamlet is still again.

My partner and I had set off by Eurostar less than 24 hours before, yet this place felt a world away from the ad agency where I work.

We’d booked cheap tickets to Paris months ago, intending to plan a trip on from there by train. As our departure approached, Instagram seemed to be full of aspirational, yet similar, holiday photos, and almost every other TikTok post I flicked past offered the promise of a hidden destination … discovered.

I find ratings, reviews and recommendations just as reassuring as the next person, especially when faced with a limited holiday allowance. The safety of the search bar helps to give me the confidence that I’m spending my hard earned money as wisely as possible. I work in a world that runs on data and optimisation and I love it, but I wondered whether I’d optimised the adventure out of my own holidays.

So, we tried a simple experiment. We closed down the tabs and opened a map of western Europe. Embracing a bit of low-tech randomness, we chose to let chance decide our trip.

I shut my eyes and we promised to go wherever my finger landed. I waved my hand like a magic wand and pointed, then took a deep breath, eyes still closed. What if we ended up in some industrial wasteland? But we were in luck. My finger landed upon the commune of Saint-Hilaire-de-Lavit in Cévennes, a place we’d never heard of and almost certainly would never have found by searching “places to go in France”.

After overnighting in Paris, a three-hour fast train zipped us down to Montpellier, where we hired a car. We stopped for provisions in a Lidl on the edge of town, stocking up for the whole trip – we weren’t expecting to find any shops at our journey’s end. A short drive inland, and the roads began to get narrower and more sparsely populated. As they climbed and zigzagged into this south-east corner of the Massif Central, we entered a south of France far removed from the honeypots served up by algorithms.

We pulled into a grassy layby on a high mountain pass where there was one other car parked. Had we arrived? We’d followed the cottage owner’s directions as there was no signal here for Google Maps, so it was hard to tell. Stretching our legs in the fresh, cool air, the first thing we noticed was the quiet. No traffic, no tourists. Just stillness. But the languid buzz of big insects flying by and the whirring chorus of cicadas told us this place was alive.

Squinting into the low sun, we saw someone waving. Our host, Guilaine, had appeared as if by magic and was beckoning us to the cottage a little farther down the road. We had found the hamlet of Les Ayres: a cluster of maybe 10 stone buildings, 800 metres above sea level. The rough-walled dwellings huddled either side of the narrow road, making the most of the tiny strand of level ground before the mountain’s spine fell away into steep forest. A long wooden awning and some outdoor tables suggested a cafe opposite our cottage, but the building was shuttered, and Les Ayres’ only potential customers seemed to be ourselves and Guilaine. She took us to the back of our accommodation, to a veranda that looked out over chestnut and pine-clad mountains rolling into the horizon. It’s a landscape that appears wild but has actually been shaped by farming, forestry and the seasonal movement of livestock for thousands of years.

The next morning, as I watched the sheep and their guardians settle down in the shade, I felt the ancientness of the place. Shepherds must have moved their flocks along the same path and most likely slept under the same chestnut trees for centuries. Traditional farming practices endure here in part because the area is veined with crystal-clear mountain streams, meaning animals traversing the paths are never too far from a drink. So rather than opening the internet, we let these ancient tracks, known as drailles, guide our hikes.

We took sweaty, daylong expeditions without seeing another human or hearing the sound of cars. The forests protected us from the worst of the sun’s blaze but, on our first trek, the real treat came when we rounded a corner to find that what we thought was the sound of wind in the pines was actually water gushing through a narrow gorge below us. Another couple of switchbacks and we arrived at a deep, clear pool created as the stream carved a corner into the rock. Dappled sunlight filtered down through trees clinging to the steep-sided valley, creating spotlights for damselflies to dart through. We stopped for a picnic and a swim in the freezing mountain water, picking wild strawberries from the bank for dessert.

We discovered that these shady, secluded river pools were waiting for us on all the paths that led down from our cottage. As well as being the ultimate pit stops for mid-hike refreshment, they were teeming with wildlife – tadpoles wriggled in the shallows, fish flickered in the depths and a huge variety of butterflies, dragonflies and other insects skimmed the surface. We even saw a snake swimming across water we’d been submerged in just minutes before.

We spent our last afternoon reading on a rock, summoning the energy to walk back up the mountain (one drawback of staying high up on a pass). We watched the sun swing over the water and the light change as the day wore on. When the air began to cool, we worked our way back towards the cottage. As the path turned into an empty, single-track road, a car approached – a big event after so much seclusion. It was Guilaine – the only person apart from the shepherds we’d encountered.

In the evening, as the light faded, the sound of brass band practice drifted towards our veranda. Later, owls called to each other and a distant wild boar screeched into the quiet night. None of this had appeared in my search results. There was no review promising unexpected trumpeting, no listicle recommending the best pool for swimming among tadpoles, and no algorithm that could have told me where the sheep would pass on that first morning. We hadn’t looked at our phones for days – maybe that was the real discovery.

“Crunch, crunch.”

If the above sounds familiar, then you might already be a Wholigan — someone who routinely listens to the long-running celebrity podcast “Who? Weekly.” Part of the fun of listening to the thrice-weekly show (one being for Patreon members), aside from its hosts contextualizing a dizzying array of tabloid headlines, is learning its lexicon. For example, “Crunch, Crunch” spoofs a bit of sponsored content the pop singer Bebe Rexha did for Lay’s Potato Chips in 2019. Other popular phrases unique to the Who-verse: “Good form, Bella Thorne.” “Scar-Jo Yummy Pop.”

Launched in 2016 by pop culture journalists Bobby Finger and Lindsey Weber, “Who? Weekly” eagerly mines the growing world of lower-tier celebrity, with the two hosts categorizing trending names under two main umbrellas: the fame-hungry “Whos” (influencers, reality stars, a pre-royal Meghan Markle) and the instantly recognizable, likely critically acclaimed “Thems” (Tom Cruise, Taylor Swift, Beyoncé). Rounding out the paradigm are the “Nahs,” or folks who aren’t well known enough to claim “Who” status.

“We came of age reading all the [gossip] bloggers, from Perez Hilton to Liz Smith,” Weber tells The Times of why she and Finger originally started “Who? Weekly,” which technically began as a newsletter before it morphed into a podcast.

Lindsey Weber and Bobby Finger have co-written the newly released book, “I Want to Be Famous: When Everybody and Nobody Is a Celebrity.”

(Justin Jun Lee / For The Times)

Finger also cites influence from “Oh No They Didn’t,” a 2000s-era LiveJournal page that aggregated celebrity headlines and invited users to comment (kind of like a proto-Subreddit). “You read the story just as you read the comments, which were integral to the story,” Finger says. “All of the inside jokes, the additional commentary. That’s what ‘Who? Weekly’ has become, especially in our Patreon Discord. [Listeners] are always chiming in and creating their own language and extensions of the ‘Who? Weekly’ universe.”

That universe is about to expand again: In conjunction with the pod turning 10 this year, Weber and Finger are releasing a new book, “I Want to Be Famous: When Everybody and Nobody Is a Celebrity,” which looks at fame and celebrity through a historical lens while also exploring how the line between Whos and Thems got that much blurrier in the social media age. “I feel like we were always barreling towards a book,” Weber says. “Both of us are trained journalists. We were always kind of like, ‘When are we going to put our money where our mouth is?’”

To demonstrate how the binary is evolving into a spectrum, Weber and Finger revisit juicy pop cultural anecdotes (remember when Courtney Love threw her compact at Madonna at the VMAs? Or when Ariana Grande dated Pete Davidson? Or when Katy Perry flew into space on the Blue Origin?) while blanketing every chapter with an elucidation of why, no matter what decade we’re in, society just can never get enough gossip.

Meanwhile, unlike the podcast, “I Want to Be Famous” gives the hosts ample room to go deeper into the cultural framework of modern celebrity than they normally have time for. Each week, Weber and Finger dedicate one episode to unpacking a prepared list of Who-y headlines, and a follow-up episode, titled “Who’s There?,” is dedicated to listener calls. Which is to say, Weber and Finger usually spend more time explaining and trading jokes about what each micro-celeb is known for rather than how celebrity itself has evolved.

Lindsey Weber and Bobby Finger are celebrating the 10th year of their podcast “Who? Weekly.”

(Justin Jun Lee / For The Times)

“The pod is on the surface funny, [but] if you are a real fan, you’re like, ‘Oh, there’s actually some interesting stuff beneath the funny,’” Finger says. “We wanted this book to be the opposite, where it’s actually outwardly interesting and smart, and then inwardly funny when it can be.”

The writers’ tone might lean more academic within “I Want To Be Famous,” but longtime fans of the pod will recognize dozens of niche names, stories and extremely online subjects that were at one point or another discussed on the show. The authors present their grand theory of Whos and Thems by opening with the story of how former Who Meghan Markle shot to Them-dom after marrying Prince Harry. Other chapters observe what happens when Thems date or marry Whos. There’s a history of how celebrities say sorry (where there were once press releases there are now Notes app apologies) and a conversation about how nepo babies fit into the framework. As the book moves across history and demonstrates how the internet has completely upended the binary, they also show what hasn’t changed about the way fans relate to their favorites. “What we want most in a celebrity is authenticity,” Weber theorizes.

For Weber and Finger, the chance to tie the disparate threads they discuss on “Who? Weekly” was a major incentive to work on their book. “I kept being like, ‘Is this the first time anyone’s ever written about this in a book?’” Weber says with a laugh. “Because some of it was so stupid — these references to fandoms and Club Chalamet and niche things that are newer … I’m like, ‘Oh my God, are we doing this thing where now people have to read about Club Chalamet in 100 years?’ Obviously that would be incredible.”

“There’s a temporality to our show that is not the case with this book, which is very exciting,” Finger adds. “Because our show kind of exists to go in one ear and out the other. And I say that because it goes in one of our ears and out the other too, as the creators.”

Woven into the conversations around Whos, Thems, Thems behaving like Whos (see: brand deals), and Whos aspiring to be Thems is the authors’ palpable anxiety about the decaying role of entertainment journalism in an age in which celebrities can simply promote themselves via social media — or host their own podcasts. The authors are also painfully aware that most audiences have less of an appetite for reading, period. A chapter titled “The 2010s Killed the Cover Star” looks back what is thought to be the greatest piece of celebrity journalism ever written (Gay Talese’s 1966 Esquire classic, “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold”) and contrasts it with today’s style of uncritical, PR-friendly celebrity Q&As that boast nothingburger headlines that don’t tell us much of anything.

Conversations about media and journalism itself run through the podcast too, and that’s by design. “Sometimes we go so niche that it’s like, ‘Are we just making a podcast for our friends that work in media?’ And sometimes the answer is yes,” Weber says. “We can only speak from our experience. … But the most shocking thing about ‘Who? Weekly’ is that [media discourse] is actually quite interesting for lots of people.”

Finger adds, “Our past in media and our abundance of friendships with people who are still in media is like a crucial part of our show. It’s an industry we respect so much, you know, and we’re obsessed with the way it evolves. If we didn’t have that background, I don’t think the show would exist the way it does at this current moment.”

Even with a massive archive of episodes and no plans to stop, Weber and Finger are thrilled to have cemented their legacy with a book that could (and really should) be taught in media and communications classes. “Bobby and I both obviously love celebrities,” Weber says. “But we love media more.”

Brodsky is an L.A. culture and music writer. Her biography of Stevie Nicks, “Lessons & Lace,” published by Penguin Random House, is out now.